


Notches

by Bruadarach



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angel Castiel, Comfort, Comforting Dean, Concerned Castiel, Cutting, Dean Has Issues, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Has Trust Issues, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hunter Dean, Hurt Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Mark of Cain, Protective Castiel, Sam is mentioned, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Worried Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bruadarach/pseuds/Bruadarach
Summary: It was back. The familiar burn; the ache. The mark was hungry for blood.Dean had found a way to silence its call, but at what cost?





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warning:**  
>  Self harm is mentioned and described in great detail. Please read at your own discretion.

When you think of someone who indulges in self harm your thoughts determine suicide as being the end goal, but that’s not always the case. Some individuals hurt themselves because they are unable to bear the burdens placed into their hands, their worth is a reoccurring question lingering in the back of their mind, or perhaps they do it to remind themselves that they are alive because the world makes them feel nonexistent. The tendency can become addictive – habitual – and once Dean crossed that line, there was no going back. It was his all-purpose solution, drowning out the self-hatred, while – in turn - reminding him that he was, indeed, alive, and not in purgatory, hell, or some other means of disconnected existence.

In his mind he believed that he didn’t deserve the life that he had. He felt like an unwanted vermin skulking about in the hopes that no one would notice his attempts at blending in with normal society. His life had always been interesting, and his social status had often been scrutinized or thought of as strange. He could interact with people decently enough, but something about him would always raise questions during his casual discussions with police, eye witnesses, and – occasionally – friends. He often felt like he didn’t belong; a glitch in an otherwise perfect system.

Accompanied by those thoughts was the understanding that, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, death endlessly followed in his footsteps.  He couldn’t deny the unwavering darkness that had lingered with him long after he was raised from perdition. Whether he had killed an innocent, or gotten a loved one murdered, or placed in harms way, he would blame himself for their demise. Even when there was evidence to the contrary, nothing would sway his mind from wallowing in self-hatred. He questioned running off on his own, distancing himself from Sam in an effort to keep him safe, but the fear of being alone often kept him from acting on the thought.

He didn’t fully comprehend the gut wrenching fear of loneliness, or how it had come to be one of his greatest phobias. He selfishly acted on his antipathy of being alone, never once considering how his brother or Castiel felt until long after his efforts had been rewarded with their company, each swearing their undying loyalty and love for the hunter. He witnessed his accomplishments destroy Castiel’s standing with heaven and ruin an otherwise perfect career for his brother. Had he continued his schooling, he would have become an amazing lawyer, living a comfortable life, away from the things that go bump in the night. Sam’s excuse was that hunting was in his blood and that it would always pull him back, but Dean knew that it was Sam’s devotion to family that allowed him to remain by Dean’s side. A part of him was grateful, while another hated himself for ruining Sam’s chance at having a normal life.

If that wasn’t enough to drive him mad, now the mark of Cain had been added to the mix, and it often reminded him of his failures, reveling in his sadness. Before the mark there were only nightmares, a form of torment that he had grown accustomed to, eventually waking without so much as batting an eyelash. Now, the brand brought along hallucinations, surging pain in his left arm, and thoughts no person should have in regards to any living creature or being. It was maddening, the incessant droning slowly but surely becoming too much to bear. Combine that with Sam’s constant fretting, questioning every decision and action that Dean performed, expecting the absolute worst out of him; fearing that the demonic being that he had been would return.

In truth, that being had never left; Dean saw him every day in his reflection, and he couldn’t bear to meet with its gaze - to be reminded of the things that he had done. Every time Dean’s eyes locked with the reflective surface, he would curse, hating the person that he saw looking back. He didn’t recognize the monster that smiled back at him with a devilish grin, enjoying his pain and guilt. It tried to push him over the edge many times, but he always managed to ground himself.

Dean had never considered self-harm as a means of aid in his suffering, grouping it with suicide, something he wasn’t too keen on performing. As much as he questioned who he was, he knew where he stood. Nothing good awaited him in death, so postponing the inevitable was preferred. He had tried dozens of methods to sate the mark’s thirst for bloodshed, killing countless demons, vampires, and ghouls – any creature he could get his hands on. He wasn’t certain if any of the beings he had murdered had been kind, or bloodthirsty, and he didn’t much care. So long as the mark would quiet down, even if it were only by a small amount, he was content.

However, the mark never silenced. In fact, it had become louder; much louder. 

His last resort was heading into the bathroom in search for a something sharp: a blade. He located his shaving razor and removed the metal from its casing. He turned the chromed bit in his hand, avoiding the green eyed gaze staring back at him. He looked at the brand burned into his skin and hesitated, wondering if the celestial scar were sentient enough to protect itself from harm. It always kept its host relatively safe, so he was certain that it would attempt some form of retaliation. He let out a low, audible sigh as he placed his hands on the edge of the sink, his eyes scanning the very edge of his cheekbones reflecting back at him in the mirror, desperately shunning away from those eyes.

‘ _Why did you think that was a good idea?_ ’ he thought to himself.

He knew, should he go through with this, that it would raise many questions, alarming Sam; causing more harm than good. He wasn’t even certain if this would work. He glanced down at his hands, taking notice of the day’s damages, his fingers and knuckles lined with minor scrapes and bruises. He considered, for a moment, if cutting his fingers would be a more suitable means than his forearm. He was certainly going nowhere near his wrist, uncertain in his own mind, questioning whether or not he would take it too far. He placed the blade to his index finger and applied pressure. The dull edge took some force, but it eventually entered the first layer of skin with an inaudible pop.

There was no pain. No blood.

He withdrew the metal and examined the microscopic hole, unable to see it within the lines of his fingerprint. Hesitantly, he brought the blade back to his finger and drew a line across the tip. The metal burned as it traveled across his flesh, blood pooling in its wake. The pain was nothing compared to the usual injuries he sustained in his line of work, so he felt little concern as he worked. Once he reached the opposite end of his finger he stopped, pulling the blade from the seam it had created. Blood pooled between the ravines of raw meat, tendrils worming their way through the white flesh in droves. Dean watched the crimson droplets form in perfect spheres, waiting for the surface tension to break and allow the blood to fall, traveling down his hand towards his wrist.

He watched the race as other trails followed suit, combining together at the base of his palm. A part of him felt good, his mind more focused on his task than on remembering. The unbearable ringing in his head was hushed momentarily, allowing him a brief moment to relax. He found himself lifting the blade and drawing another line, directly under the first. This cut was deeper, the thick liquid needing no hesitation to fall effortlessly from its home. It burned more than the first, but the pain was still bearable. If anything, it was a reminder that he was alive, in the bunker, his feet resting against the cold tile of the bathroom; it wasn’t one of his reoccurring nightmares, or some thought up reality.

Once more, the mark’s sound drifted further away, so Dean continued with his task.

Small specs of blood began to litter the grey, concrete floor, the blade soon accompanying the display as Dean’s hand lost all feeling, his fingers no longer able to keep a steady hold of the metal. Both of Dean’s index fingers had been shredded; the flesh tender and raw. He watched as his fingers shook, the nerves surging frantically, blaring danger and pain over and over in an effort to jump start the panic that he should have felt, but nothing answered the cry for help. He was un-phased, listening to the quiet trickle of blood meeting with the small puddle forming beneath him. A strange mixture of emotions cascaded through him, drawing a crooked smirk across his face. The mark was quiet and his mind was a peace. Any doubt about his existence was gone. For the moment, he felt reassured enough by his efforts that he was truly alive. He could feel pain, see and touch the blood staining the floor; it was undeniable.

A strange laugh found its way into his throat, muffled, but strong enough to rock his head as it pushed forth through his lips. He placed one of his aching hands to his head and allowed the laughter to roll from between his teeth, his lips upturned as the same, crooked smirk returned. Though he felt peace for a moment, his mind was soon flooded with anxiety about what he had done. He felt ashamed, knowing full well that this would be difficult to explain. He wondered if he could talk himself out of this situation and brush these organized lines aside as battle wounds. They were too perfect; too symmetrical. In a panic, he reached for the bottle of medical grade alcohol and dumped its contents over his hands. He winced as fire encompassed the wounds, his nerves screaming in retaliation. Grumbling, he tore open the cabinet in search of bandages, snatching them in his fist as he fumbled with the fabric in an effort to hide his questionable choices. He looked at the wrappings with concern, the pristine, white layers already soaked through.

When addressed by Sam, or Cass, he had lied, blaming the night of hunting for his bandaged limbs, claiming that he had gotten into a knife fight with one of the vamps and used his hands as a means to block the blade. Thankfully, the two men bought it, though Sam questioned his explanation with skepticism at first.

Dean could breathe a sigh of relief, for the moment.

After a couple of days, the mark’s beckoning resumed, its call overwhelming. Dean’s fingers had healed nicely, his work leaving little to no scarring. Therefore, he felt comfortable going at it again, though he shifted over to his middle finger, not wanting to cause any permanent damage to his still recovering pointers. Once more, his efforts reaped great rewards, and the mark’s beckoning silenced. This developed into a habit, one that was becoming more and more dangerous as time went on. What had started out as a finger or two was now three or four. His excuses were becoming too similar and Sam was having doubts, unsure of what his brother was hiding. Castiel was also showing concern for the older Winchester, picking up on the state of his soul, worn and broken. Neither of them pried, but together they silently worried, wondering which of them would be the first to act.

One night, Dean took his addiction too far.

The symmetrical lines of torn flesh had made their way down his hand and towards his wrist, the hunter making certain to keep his work on the outer side of his arm, calloused and tanned from years of hunting; he was going nowhere near the sensitive skin on the underside of his arms. His knuckles had gotten the worst of it, the hunter not realizing how shallow the skin was in that area. The bones of his knuckles stuck out beneath the ragged meat, drowned under a pool of steaming blood. His skin ached, his nerves numb; accustomed to the pain. His usual, glossy eyed stare had formed into wide eyed horror as he took in his efforts, mortified by how far he had taken it. His efforts had paid off. The mark was silent, his mind was silent, and yes, he knew for certain that he was truly alive, but his heart shook with dread, churning up a storm inside of his stomach. His skin paled as his subconscious was flooded with questions towards himself, his actions, and whether or not he could keep this a secret for much longer.

He fumbled towards the shower, his hands leaving a bloody trail in his wake. He normally ended each session under the comforting pressure of the water, gently cleaning his wounds to prevent infection, making certain to use the medical grade bottle of alcohol inside of the cabinet to rid the wounds of anything he may have missed while bathing. This time, however, he was on his knees, fully clothed inside of the shower, his hands resting on top of his thighs. His eyes locked on to the trail of blood, watching as it mixed with the water from the shower head above him. A part of him wished that the downpour could wash away this mistake, taking it down the drain and away from him, but all it did was drown out his thoughts as it mimicked the sound of pouring rain, soaking through his clothes, seeping right into his core. His breathing began to quicken, his forehead decorated with sweat beneath the soaked tips of his hair.

‘ _What did you do?_ ’ he thought.

Interrupting the constant was a familiar voice, pushing through the monotonous downpour.

“Dean?”

“Cass?” he answered.

It was as though the angel had heard him, flying hard and fast to his aid. He wondered, for a moment, if he had been unconsciously praying, summoning the angel to his side, but his thoughts were soon silenced when Castiel began to explain his presence.

“I was looking for you. You were gone for quite some time. I didn’t realize that you were showering.”

“Oh…” Dean mumbled. “Yeah.”

On the other side of the curtain, the angel stood stoically, his squinted gaze examining his surroundings; a compulsion that he had developed many years ago. No matter how many times he visited the same place, he would always need to look; to take notice of the changes, no matter how small. In this case, a lot had changed in the bathroom, both visually and not. The usual, comfortable aura was now replaced with panic and uncertainty. Where Dean’s shaving razor was usually kept was now bare, the case strewn across the floor, along with its blade. Accompanying the blade was… blood. He followed the trail of crimson droplets to the sink, taking note of the prepped bottle of alcohol and roll of bandages, ready to be used. He then followed the deep, red lines – seemingly left by hands - the injured individual using their wounds as a means to keep balance while entering… the shower.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?” he barked, his voice cracking at the tip.

“Are you alright?”

Silence.

That question. That dreaded inquiry that he hated more than ‘I forgot the pie’. No matter how much reassurance he gave, he was always asked - always questioned, as though the state of his well-being was important enough to pass on a case; on a hunt. He knew they could see that he was lying. Sam was brilliant at reading individuals and their unconscious tells, while Castiel’s angel sensing capabilities rivaled that of sorcerer. He always knew – they always knew – that he was deceiving them; that he wasn’t fine.

“I’m good.” he mumbled, though he knew the seraph wouldn’t buy it.

And he didn’t. Castiel knew that Dean was being dishonest. He also knew better than to pry. When it came to personal concerns, Dean would always shut everyone out, not wanting to share his burden; believing that it was only his to bear. The angel couldn’t fathom why someone would want to endure so much suffering on their own, but he never questioned him. Dean was strong in so many ways, and Castiel couldn’t help but admire him for his resilience. No matter what horrors were thrown his way, he would always take charge and push forward, protecting everyone other than himself, allowing his vessel to soak up the pain and withstand it alone. This time was different. There were no outside sources bearing down on the hunter; none that the seraph could sense. This all seemed to be coming from within himself.

He didn’t hesitate in his decision to act.

“I’m coming in.” he warned.

“Wait, what?!” Dean snapped.

Before he could offer a rebuttal, Castiel was in front of him, the shower curtain billowing in his wake. Time seemed to slow as Castiel’s gaze locked with Dean’s fearful glance, unable to retaliate or speak as the seraph’s ferocity overtook him. The silence was drowned out by the onslaught of water against Castiel’s back, dyeing his overcoat a dark shade of brown as it soaked through the fabric.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“Where’s what?”

"Where is the injury that you are hiding from me?" Castiel snapped, quickly losing his patience.

"I'm not hiding anything." Dean retorted.

He made the subconscious effort to hide his hands, not realizing that the angel's intense gaze would follow his attempts at concealing his guilt. Castiel's hand shot forward and latched on to Dean's wrist, the hunter wincing in pain as the seraph's grip twisted his hand forward and into view. Castiel's scrutinizing blues hesitated, the ferocity replaced with alarming concern. Slowly his lips parted as he examined the damage littered across Dean's hand, unable to hide the bewilderment streaking across his features. The blood from the wounds continued to pool, traveling down Dean’s hand and into the angel’s plam.

"... and the other?" he asked, never taking his eyes off of the bleeding mess.

Reluctantly, the hunter revealed his other limb, equally battered and torn. Castiel’s gaze slowly shifted, his militarized form faltering as he was met with a case of self infliction that he had never seen in his lifetime of existence. His brows pressed together hard, his shoulders slouching as his hand gently traced around the incisions, his nose darkening as he felt the swell of burning, itching tears glossing his vision in a thick haze.

“Dean…” he began. “… what have you done?”

The hunter couldn’t bear to look at the angel, his eyes glued to the drain between the two of them. He tried to drown out Castiel’s presence – tried to focus on the flow of water, endlessly traversing down into the darkness – but the seraph made himself known, lifting Dean’s head by his chin in an effort to meet with his avoiding gaze.

“Dean?” he demanded. “Talk to me.”

As much as Dean wanted to reveal the inner turmoil that had been plaguing his mind for the past few months, he remained silent, unable to speak. Discussing his feelings was something Dean had never excelled in. He had no idea why it was such a frightening act for him to perform, but it always had been, even when he was a child. He couldn’t recall more than a handful of occasions in his time of existence where he had confided in someone else, and each occurrence had been with Sam. Even with such occasions under his belt, he had never truly revealed his deepest woes, only giving a feint sliver of his feelings in times where he was too desperate to keep quiet. It wasn’t simply the fear of being vulnerable that had him speechless. It was also the unknown; he had no idea why he was acting on these urges and didn’t want to place meaning into something that held none. It held no significance in his daily routine. It was only a means to an end; a desperate attempt at normalcy.

“I can’t.” he mumbled.

“Why not?” Castiel asked, his voice a mixture of concern and desperate curiosity.

“You wouldn’t understand.” he snapped. “Hell, I don’t understand!”

“Try to explain it.” he requested earnestly.

Dean shook his head in frustration. Normally Castiel’s lack of understanding was a great source of entertainment; almost like speaking with a naïve child. In this case, however, it was frustrating. How was he supposed to clarify something that he was unable to explain - to describe his own, chaotic thoughts that he himself didn’t fully understand? This wasn’t something that could be solved with a simple, one step solution. This was far more complicated.

“I-… it’s the mark.” he began, lifting his left limb so that Castiel could see the brand in its aggravated state. The scar was pulsating, glowing, and decorated with dark tendrils that were slowly traveling up Dean’s arm. “It’s getting worse. I thought if I killed a couple of demons now and then it would calm down, but it only made things worse. It won’t shut up! It keeps calling to me, begging me to kill more. Once I take that first swing… I-I can’t stop! I just keep going…”

Castiel sat back on his heels, crossing his arms over his knees as he listened to Dean speak. His eyes trailed down the other man's features until they locked firmly with the mark of Cain. He stared, watching as the tendrils fluctuated and pulsed beneath Dean’s irritated skin, flared and raw. The angel hated that brand. He didn’t understand why Dean had agreed to bear such a curse in the first place. Castiel knew that the world needed saving (as it so often did), but was such a gamble truly worth the risk? Perhaps Dean didn’t understand the repercussions of his decision? Dean had always been thoughtless when it came to life threatening situations, never stopping to consider alternative means. It was second nature to him; an admirable gesture, but not necessary. There were other ways - other methods that they could have tried. But, Dean was persistent, and his instinctual behavior had become customary whenever there were a greater purpose needing to be fulfilled.

And Dean knew it. He was fully aware of his pathetic, self-loathing desire to sacrifice himself whenever the opportunity presented itself. He didn't want to admit it, but it was as though he were looking for an easy way out; that if he sacrificed his own existence for the good of the world, maybe he wouldn't come back; that he had a shot at getting through the pearly gates. Dean had died more times than any human should, and he still stood by his belief that what was dead should stay dead. As much as he enjoyed being with his brother and Cass, he couldn't deny that lingering doubt in the back of his mind, reminding him that he was an anomaly; that he didn't belong.

“I’ve been hallucinating… talking to no one, seeing things in my reflection…” Dean said through quaking jaws. “I dream about killing- not just demons, but normal, run of the mill people. _People_ , Cass!”

Castiel could only watch as words spilled from Dean’s lips, the hunter never once talking about what was emotionally ailing him; only explaining the symptoms that accompanied the burden of the mark. The seraph had no words – no passing thoughts of wisdom to share – for he knew little to nothing about the mark. He knew of no way to help, or comfort him, other than to offer his attention, which Dean seemed hesitant to allow. Something about the older Winchester that Castiel never understood was his soul’s cry for help never being reciprocated by its host. No matter how desperately his spirit sought comfort, his vessel would never grant its request, refusing to seek assistance.

Castiel had watched Dean’s soul be torn and ripped to shreds through years of torment, being revived without time to heal from death, unable to glow as brightly as it once had. He had never acted – never tried to convince Dean that he should allow himself time to repair the damage still evident after all these years, and he was ashamed for it. How could he have allowed this to go on for so long? How had he been able to ignore it? It was always present – right in front of him every single day – staring him down. He could still sense the pain twisting inside of the man’s soul, its cries faint; distant. He should have tried harder. He felt as though the hunter’s current condition was partially his fault and he blamed himself for his inability to act.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” he mumbled.

“It’s not your fault, Cass.” Dean sighed, glad to be done with the brief chick flick moment; even more relieved that Castiel didn’t mother hen him, as Sam often did.

“You’re wrong, Dean.” the angel mumbled.

He could hear it as he spoke, trying his best to hide the swollen sensation filling his throat. His breathing hitched, his hands shook, and an overwhelming feeling of dread chilled him to the core.

“It is my fault.” he whispered, the words barely audible as his guilt overcame him.

He looked up to see Dean watching him with hesitant curiosity, having never seen Castiel in such a state of duress. When his eyes locked with the angel’s deep, blue hues he faltered, holding his breath. Tears pooled within the oceanic gaze, spilling over and falling down the slopes of his cheeks. Some were caught in his stubble, while the rest gathered beneath his chin where they dripped as one to mix with the water cascading down his face.

“Cass?” Dean whispered, his words sewn deeply with concern.

“I should have helped you… I could have helped you...” he choked between trembling lips. “Why… why had I not tried harder?”

It was his sole purpose to keep the Winchester brother’s safe. Despite having taking a particular liking to Dean, he had done his job well over the years, rescuing them both from countless dangers, including the danger he had brought upon them himself. Dean had never shown signs of self-hatred. Not once. Had he misread the obviously critical state of his soul for something less severe?  How had Dean managed to keep this a secret for so long? Had he truly been that blind; that overcome with affection that he failed to see the man he loved succumbing into darkness? His mind was frantic as he tried to find the logic - the reason behind this sudden discovery.

What he didn’t understand was that this sort of demon had always been visible, hidden in plain sight. It often shows up out of nowhere, with no warning, catching even the victim off guard. No one can predict when it will strike, and no one can prevent it from doing harm once it has sunk its teeth in deep. It was alarming and immensely devastating for the angel, his limbs beginning to tremble as he was wrought with panic. Dean sat up, leaning closer to his companion, his hands on either side of the seraph’s quaking form, hesitant to touch him.

“Whoa, Cass, are you okay? I’ve never seen you like this…”

No one had ever seen Castiel in this state, because the seraph had never this strongly about another being, human or not. His brethren had been correct when they had warned that Castiel had lost himself. Ever since he raised Dean from perdition there was an irrefutable bond that the two of them shared. He didn’t know whether Dean felt it too, but it was the fire igniting the angel to act on the hunter’s behalf. Their bond is what drew him when called, grounded him when driven away, and what allowed him to let his guard down and trust someone other than god; other than heaven’s radical terms of obedience. Dean was his reason for being – his reason for choosing humanity over heaven; for choosing exile.

He loved him, more than words could ever express, and he didn’t mind whether or not those feelings were reciprocated.

“Even in your current state…” Castiel chuckled, his voice quivering with disbelief. “... you’re able to brush aside your pain in order to help someone else.”

Dean truly was the definition of selfless, his compassionate behavior bordering on masochism. Did he enjoy feeling so negatively towards himself, or was his soul that noble? It was admirable, the angel never ceasing to be amazed by the Winchester’s and their altruistic nature. Even so, the angel felt selfish for allowing the tension to shift over to him, rather than to focus on Dean and his current condition; it wasn’t Castiel’s intention.

"I can't lose you, Dean…" he whispered, attempting to shift the conversation back to the injured hunter.

Dean sighed, a slight hint of annoyance strewn through his breath. “I’m not suicidal.” he grumbled, assuming that Castiel was expecting the worst out of this situation. “It just… it helps.”

“No, Dean…” Cass retorted, his words interrupted by the cascading water flowing over his lips. “It doesn’t.”

“Look, I don’t expect you to understand-“

Castiel’s head shot up, his eyes locking onto Dean’s once more, bright and ferocious. “I don’t, Dean.” he stated matter-of-factly. “And I never will. I cannot, and will not attempt to dig into your mind – your privacy – in an effort to understand your state of being, but I can tell, simply by looking at you, that this will only end in death.”

If Dean wanted to play his usual games – to avoid the necessary conversation and refuse to ask for the help he so desperately needed – then Castiel was going to be upfront with him. He had lost Dean many times and gotten lucky that god had taken a liking to the man, allowing him to return from death. This line of work that the two of them brashly pursued always ended in bloodshed. He doubted that the lord would show such generosity in the future, uncertain as to what the future held.

“Cass-“

“I’m not making assumptions, Dean.” CastieI interrupted. “I can see it. It’s in your eyes – an overwhelming fear that you’re losing yourself; that this has developed into something life threatening.”

The angel’s words were met with silence as Dean retreated within himself, putting up countless walls in his wake in an effort to shield himself from the truth. He was dreadfully aware of how dangerous this habit was becoming, often needing to drink in order to perform the unnecessary act. He claimed that it helped, and maybe it did in ways he hated to admit, but deep down he understood the risks. He was afraid of himself; afraid of his mind. He’d wanted to confirm the angel's statement - to seek the comfort that he knew he needed - but his usual, stubborn silence overtook him, enveloping him in annoyed frustration at himself and his inability to speak.

He wasn’t certain if the reasons behind his hesitation to open up – to allow people in – were being caused by himself, or the fear that his burdens would get someone killed, as they so often did. No matter how desperately he tried to shake death, the reaper would always claim those who got too close to the _cursed_ Dean Winchester. He didn’t want to get anyone else hurt because of him; he didn’t want anyone to get involved in his business – his responsibilities. Only he should have to suffer through them, not anyone else.

“Dean, this has developed into something dangerous!” Cass cried. “Your hands are still bleeding. “

“I’m aware, Cass.” he spat.

“Please, let me help you.” the angel asked gently, reaching a tentative hand out to grasp Dean’s raw and broken flesh.

“I don’t need your help.” he stated gruffly, snatching his hand away before the seraph could so much as brush the skin.

“Dean-“

“Go away, Cass.” he growled.

Normally, the seraph would comply and leave the hunter to his thoughts, but this situation was far too dangerous. Castiel was uncomfortable with entrusting Dean to his solitude, uncertain of the actions he may, or may not perform in his present condition. So, he remained, sitting back against the opposite wall of the shower. He crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap, looking about aimlessly so as not to put too much focus on Dean, allowing the hunter a moment to himself.

It didn’t last long, Dean quickly becoming annoyed at the angel’s presence, still firmly seated in place and making no effort to leave.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled.

“I’m bathing.” Cass stated, as though it should seem obvious to the hunter. He stretched his neck forward, allowing his head to become doused in the downpour of water.

“Bathing? With clothes on?” Dean said, raising his eyebrows, unamused by Castiel’s display.

“You’re bathing with clothes on, as well, Dean.” the angel stated bluntly.

“I’m not-” Dean growled, hanging his head in irritation. He knew what the angel was attempting to do: acting as though nothing was wrong in an effort to distract him from his thoughts. It was a kind gesture, but nothing could silence the pandemonium wreaking havoc in his subconscious. If anything, the angel’s presence was making it worse; a reminder of his weakness. “Why are you still here?”

Castiel’s features fell, aware that his efforts had been lackluster; not enough to do more than annoy the man across from him. "I simply wish to help, Dean."

"Well, sitting across from me, in the shower of all places, isn't helping."

"I apologize, Dean." Castiel mumbled, his eyes shifting down to his dress shoes, completely soaked through from the torrential downpour from the shower head.

“Then leave.” the hunter snapped.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Castiel said, being certain to keep his voice kind and gentle, not wanting to make Dean more upset than he already was.

His efforts failed, the hunter's cheeks flushing red as his aggravated state increased.

“And why not?” he barked. “What, are you worried? Are you afraid that I’ll slit my wrists the moment you decide to walk out? I already told you that I’m not suicidal, Cass!”

Dean’s brows were now firmly pressed together into a menacing scowl, his gaze hot and unyielding. He seemed savage, as though he were a lion guarding its meal from a herd of lurking lionesses when, in actuality, Dean was guarding himself. He was unwilling, as Castiel had become accustomed, to allow anyone close enough to see weakness. He often retaliated in this manner, reacting violently, or storming off to seek solitude elsewhere. Normally, the angel wouldn’t bat an eyelash; he would merely sigh in frustration, baffled by the man’s behavior. However, those situations weren’t as dire as this one. This needed mending and urgent care, which Castiel was more than willing to give, if only Dean would allow him the opportunity to act.

He decided, in that moment, to take action, with or without Dean's consent.

“Open your legs.” Castiel demanded.

“What?” Dean shouted.

“Trust me.”

Dean was not in the mood to take orders, much less orders that seemed incredibly inappropriate for the present moment. Castiel’s eyes were intense as his gaze locked onto Dean’s green eyes, the hues faltering beneath the ferocity that the angel's steady gaze was emitting. Dean had grown accustomed to the seraph’s harsh stare, able to tell when he was frustrated, or pissed off, solely based on the shade of blue in his eyes. However, this shade was new. It was an incredibly deep blue, his eyes dilating ever so slightly as his remained focused on Dean, awaiting his response. Something about that look made the hunter falter, his legs relaxing against the walls of the shower, allowing Castiel to close the space between them.

The angel then wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and held him gently, resting his chin on the hunter’s shoulder. Dean’s skin flushed as blood rushed to his head, uncertain as to what Castiel hoped to accomplish from this.

“Cass, wha-“

The angel's hands began to roam, traveling up the hunter's spine and towards his shoulders. There, he clutched Dean's shirt, the fabric constricting in protest as he pulled Dean further into his embrace. It was as though Dean were a treasure so precious to the angel that he couldn’t bear to let him go, his grasp unyielding and strong. The hunter's hands began to shake, hovering over Castiel's back, unsure of how to respond. He took a deep breath, unintentionally inhaling the angel’s scent. He smelled of petrichor and honey, a smell that Dean never knew he would enjoy up until this moment.

“Cass…?” he questioned.

After a moment or two of silence, a strange aura fell over the hunter. It was gentle, filling the small space between them with an all-encompassing bliss. Dean's stomach fluttered at the sensation. He wanted to resist – wanted to quickly pull away and exit the room, but his body began to relax, melting into the angel’s embrace. Dean tentatively wrapped his arms around Castiel, his hands resting gingerly between the seraph's shoulder blades. The blood from his wounded limbs began to seep into the twill of the angel's overcoat, dyeing the fabric crimson.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked.

“I’m holding you.” Castiel stated, the warmth of his breath causing the hairs on Dean's neck to rise, sending a chill down his spine.

“No, I mean… _what_ are you doing?" he replied in shuddering breaths. "Are you using your grace, or magic, or something?”

“No?” Cass replied. “I’m only holding you.”

He forgot his concerns, his fears, and focused on Castiel’s embrace, his unique scent leaving his mind in a blissful daze. Time seemed to stop and silence enveloped him. He felt weightless, as though every burden that had been bearing down on his shoulders had been lifted and taken away. He was overcome with an emotion that he couldn't quite place, unable to stop the quake in his lips, his jaw trembling. He could feel the burning ache in his throat as his eyes were flooded with a blurred, salty haze.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his words barely audible.

“Because you need someone to help you.” Castiel stated. "Because, no matter how much your push me away, I will not leave you. I will not fail you again. I will stay by your side and help you, no matter what."

He didn't notice the tears streaking down his cheeks, effortlessly making their escape from his eyes and traveling down to his chin. His hands ached against the pressure beating down on them from the shower head, the water having turned frigid from their prolonged exposure. His fingers were stiff as he brought them around to his lap, his eyes locking onto the shriveled skin. The wounds were no longer bleeding and the burning had ceased. Castiel did not move, his arms shielding Dean from the cold downpour.

“Is this helping?” Castiel asked, concern sewn into his words.

“Yeah.” Dean said quietly. “Yeah... it is.”

Castiel was relieved to hear that his efforts had finally paid off. He didn’t know why he hadn't tried this sooner. Maybe it was Dean’s show of disgust at the thought of being close to another man that had once deterred him, or the hunter’s incessant need for solitude whenever anything ailed him. Either way, he was grateful for this moment; for Dean’s trust.

“Would you like it if I did this with you whenever you need it?” the angel asked.

Dean chuckled, his throat still thick from the build up of emotion that had overtaken him. "Yeah.” he coughed. “Yeah... I'd like that.”

Time seemed to return to its usual flow, the monotonous sound of the shower head filling the room once more. It hadn't felt like they had been inside of the bathroom for that long, but the chill of the water was enough evidence to the contrary. Castiel seemed to have taken notice as well, placing a small distance between himself and the hunter in order to speak with him.

"May I bandage your hands now?" he asked.

Dean's eyes scanned over the incisions scattered across his fingers, his gaze traveling down to his knuckles, palms, and wrists. He felt a wave of shame wash over him as he soaked up the image, causing him to ball up his fists, clutching the skin tightly; so tense that it began to turn white. After a moment, he released his grip, allowing a deep sigh to push its way out of his throat. It took him a moment to collect himself, but, eventually, he mumbled in agreement, accepting Castiel's request.

* * *

Dean was situated on the toilet seat, his cheek pressed against his fist, and an old towel draped loosely over his lap. The majority of his clothing had been hung to dry, leaving the hunter in his boxers. Among the Winchester's clutter of garments were Castiel's over coat and suit jacket, the seraph having delicately placed them over the shower head in hopes that it would be strong enough to bear the weight of his clothing and allow them to shed their weight of water. The angel was now barefoot, with only his dress pants and button up shirt to cover him. Despite their efforts, the two of them were still dripping wet, but the frigid air didn't bother the seraph as much as it did Dean, who silently shivered where he sat.

Across from the seated hunter stood the aforementioned angel, who was fumbling with a bandage, desperately trying to free it from its wrapping. Dean watched Castiel work with endearment, endlessly entertained by his lack of understanding and naivety when it came to common tasks. There was never a dull moment with Cass around.

“Bear with me.” the angel grumbled, biting his lower lip as he focused on his task.

“Take your time.” Dean joked.

Castiel appeared to have missed his attempt at humor as he growled excitedly, having freed the bandage from its prison. He quickly adorned it with ointment and kneeled beside the hunter, whose hand lay waiting on the towel, ready for treatment. Slowly Castiel lowered the aid onto his wounded limb, being certain to cover every injury in a generous amount of antibacterial goo.

“Cass?” Dean began.

The angel responded slowly, making certain to work delicately. “… yes?”

It took him a moment to answer, gathering up the courage to express his gratitude for the angel and everything that he had done for him this evening. He was having difficulty forming coherent sentences, unable to express how much the seraph's simple gesture had meant to him; had helped him. He didn't fully understand it himself - how powerful a simple hug had been; how it could stir so much emotion within him. Was that all that he had needed? Comfort? He could have gotten the same treatment from Sam, though he doubted that it would have the same effect. There was something happening between the two men; something Dean had been feeling for years, though he had no way of describing it.

Whenever the two of them had exchanged prolonged stares, or brushed skin on skin contact, he would always feel this strange tightness in his chest. His breathing would hitch and his cheeks would flush ever so slightly. He never understood why this happened, but he received a taste of what was building between the two of them this evening. He wasn't certain if that was why the angel's embrace had done so much with so little words, or if all he really needed was that closeness with another being. No matter the case, he was immensely grateful and no amount of words could express how much it all meant to him.

 He could feel his eyes begin to burn as tears glossed over his vision, pooling beneath his partially closed eyelids.

“Thank you.” he whispered, his head hung low, eyes ever avoiding.

Castiel smiled softly, his eyes sparkling with adoration as he carried on with his task. He listened to Dean’s quiet sobs, the muffled cries trickling down to the kneeling seraph. Castiel wished he could explain his devotion - his desires; his willingness to always be at Dean's side, but he knew that his feeling would be unreciprocated, mistaken for loyalty based on their long developed friendship. A part of him was saddened by this thought, while a much more prevalent piece of him was grateful to simply have Dean in his life. So long as he could remain at his side, his feelings didn’t matter. Only his actions held significance, and he was determined to perform the role of guardian angel whenever the burdened man required it.

“Anytime, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you struggle with self harm and need someone to confide in, do not hesitate to ask for help.
> 
> Stay strong, SPN family. ♡


End file.
